


fata obscura

by starblessed



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Drug Addiction, F/M, Gen, Olivia Lives / Hugh Dies, Suicide, but hey nell is really happy so focus on that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-09 04:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19881712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “It’s Stevie,” she gasps out, clutching Arthur’s shirt like a lifeline. She is no longer a grown adult, but a terrified child again — a child staring at a demon, staring into a cup of liquid that glistens like stars, staring as the house vanishes behind her, leaving her parents alone with it. Nothing has changed, except she is no longer here, and no longer there, and something powerful is calling her back home.Her hands tighten into fists around Arthur's shirt, and unseeing eyes raise to meet his.“Stevie’s in the Red Room.”----The house takes, and it takes, and it tried to take Olivia Crain.It failed.Instead, it took something else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write something for this amazing show for so long, and this idea has stuck in my head for almost as long — kind of a role reversal, while also analyzing what could have happened in canon if That One Night has gone differently.
> 
> What if the Crain kids lost one parent to the house that night... but it wasn’t Olivia? How would that have changed the story, and the children themselves, if they'd held onto one parent instead of the other?
> 
> This was supposed to be a pretty long oneshot, but it’s turned into a multi-chapter, so... we’ll see how this goes.

Fifteen percent battery left on her phone, and no missed calls.

Nell isn’t sure why she’s disappointed.

She meant to check earlier, of course, but the monumental task of clearing out the spare room has kept her busy all day. Every house has a clutter room, as Mom likes to say — the place where all the odds and ends wind up, the things no one knows where else to put. This is fine, until the need for an extra bedroom arises, and the clutter room quickly becomes any home owner’s worst nightmare.

Well. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. Far darker things can lurk between four walls than a room of sports memorabilia and old family albums . If Nell doesn’t know that for a fact, she knows nothing at all.

Four hours of hauling things down to the basement, and her muscles are sore, head pounding with the beginnings of an all-too-frequent migraine. She’d pop an Advil if she could, but it’s nearly five, and time for a different medication. _Zoloft_ _ is fine,  _ her doctor reassured, but anxiety writhes in Nell’s stomach anyways as she shakes two white pills into her hand. Her usual prescription won’t do anything bad. She knows, because she read up on it — and everything else, everything she could thing of — until Arthur plucked the phone out of her hands and pulled her down on top of him, forcing her to sleep.  This is for the best. WebMD is a black hole, and Mommy blogs are even worse.

Only after her medication, when she’s slumped at the table with a glass of lemonade, does she think to check her phone… and Nell had no idea she was holding her _breath_ , hoping, until the lock screen comes up blank.  _ No missed calls. No texts. _

He promised he’d call.

Before she knows what she’s doing, her hands have twitched across the screen, and the phone is pressed against her ear. Its familiar ring echoes like an church choir, mounting in anxiety with every peal. Her foot taps against the tile; teeth gnaw absently at her lower lip. It rings, and rings, and rings again.

He’s probably just distracte—

“Hey.”

A smile breaks across her face, warmer than the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds. “Hey, you. What happened?”

Luke sighs into the phone. She can almost  _ hear _ him wincing. It’s been two decades, but deep down, he’s still the little boy who tripped into Aunt Janet’s beloved garden, and couldn’t meet her eyes when he confessed to tearing up the hydrangea bush. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I meant to call before, but I’m working on this piece, and the damn neighbor’s dog —“

“Is breaking your focus?”

“Sure it's not legal to barbecue dogs anymore?” Luke’s sarcasm is dangerous to strangers, because he sounds like he means it half the time. The other half, he does. Nell’s lips purse into a fond smile, chewed nails drumming against the tabletop as she relaxes in her seat. 

“You’ll get it. It always comes to you, just… give it time. What's the thing Mom says you need… music?”

_“Muse,_ like inspiration. Like, _I know what I’m doing, and I’m gonna do it.”_ Luke huffs into the line, and Nell is satisfied knowing she drew half a chuckle from him. ”Hell, I hope I know how art works by now. I’ve been at it a while.”

“Which is exactly why you’re so good.”

Her voice is laced with laughter, but the words are true. Just last month, a sculpture of Luke’s was shown in a local exhibit, and some of his paintings have made their way to various exhibitions. He’s no Picasso, not yet, but he’s _good,_ and more people are starting to see it. “One day, Luke Crain’s going to be a household name,” their mother had declared, so obviously proud that Luke hid his shudder at the idea. (Of course,  Olivia has been her son’s greatest fan, and most generous patron, from the start of his career. Somewhere in her closet, there’s a box of Luke’s childhood crayon scribbles — not pinned up to the fridge anymore, but still admired, the way only a mom can.)

If she presses him, Luke will give out a few details of his latest piece, but not much. Nell’s the only one he shares ideas with. Even then, Luke keeps them close to his chest. He doesn’t like sharing, and he sure as anything doesn’t want to talk about where he gets his ideas… but if she asks, he’ll tell her more.

A question is on the top of her tongue. What slips out is one she didn’t plan, and really didn't want to ask. 

“Have you heard from Steve?”

For a minute, Luke is doesn’t make a sound. The phone may as well have gone dead — Nell checks, just in case. No, the line’s still connected, but silent. Unease churns in her gut, and she runs a finger over the faded scuffs on the kitchen table.

“No,” Luke finally answers, after a pause that cannot have been as long as it felt. “Nothing. He hasn’t bothered calling me in awhile now.”

“He hasn’t called me either.” There’s where the worry creeps in, bleeding into her words like red wine through an old carpet. “Not since… the last time. It’s been weeks, Luke, that isn’t like him —“

“I know, Nellie.” 

Were it anyone else — Arthur, or Shirley, or god forbid Steve — they’d brush off her anxiety as nothing. Grown men can go off the grid all they like; it’s no one’s job to stop them. But for Steve to stay quiet for a whole month… he barely talks to Luke, calls Shirl a few times a year, and Mom got a call from him on her last birthday. That’s it. Other than Nell, Steve’s happy to keep his distance from his family, and they’re happy to give it to him. The painful distance which exists between him and everybody else has never stood between them, though. Steve  _ talks _ to her.

Nell tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes darting distractedly towards the array of family photos pinned to the fridge. There she is, posing with Arthur… there are all her siblings, together for once… there’s Mom, smile not reaching her eyes… the same sick feeling twists in her stomach again, and her hand tightens around the phone. “Mom hasn’t heard from him in the longest time. Neither has Shirley. I even called Theo, just to see —“

“Theo has phone privileges?”

“It’s almost been two months, Luke. She’s in rehab, not prison.”

“Yeah, I know that —“ Luke sighs again, and she can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck, the way he does when he's worried but trying not to show it. “Nothing?”

“No one’s heard from him.”

Her eyes land on an old favorite — the picture of her and Steve, dancing at her wedding. With his little sister pressed against his chest, her brother looks strong and healthy. His eyes are bright, and there’s color to his stubbled cheeks. His grin is wide, open, like he was caught in the middle of a laugh. Nell's head is tossed back, laughing right along with him.

_ I can’t, Nellie. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

“Something’s not right. I can feel it.”

“D’you think it’s maybe just because —“

“No, Luke.” Her hand rests over her stomach. “I just know. He wasn’t okay when I talked to him, and he isn’t okay now.”

Luke is quiet for another long moment, before almost reluctantly breaking the silence. “You tried Leigh?”

“No.” Suddenly, she feels like an idiot. “Do you think he’d —“

“Maybe. Hell, it’d be hard for him to make it any worse between them.” Then again, Steve can always find a way. “If he’s nowhere else, maybe…”

If Steve went back to his ex-wife, after how devastating — and  _ graphic _ — their break-up was, he really must be desperate. Nell can't stand the thought of him in that position. Still, something troubles her even more, something she can’t put a finger on.

After a long moment of hesitation, she sighs and gives in. “I think I’d better call Mom.”

“You know he wouldn’t —“

“I know, but it’s not just about Steve. It’s…”

She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence; but with Luke, she never needs to. 

“Ask her, then. Chances are she’s got a feeling of her own. If she doesn’t, she can just ask the ghosts.”

“Stop.”

“Hey, they give good advice. Who’m I to judge?”

“You sound like Steve now.”

He shuts up all at once, like a door slamming closed. That was a low blow, but Nell can’t regret it. She’s always been protective of her mother, more than any of the rest of them — even Luke has to roll his eyes at the crystals and ouija boards which now occupy Olivia’s spare time, but Nell never would.

Their mother isn’t  _ crazy _ , after all, no matter what anyone else tries to say.

_ It’s in our blood, Nellie, don’t you get it? It’s in her blood, yours, mine…. it’s in mine… _

“Call Mom, Nellie,” Luke says, shattering the tense silence and raining glass onto her uneasy memories. “See what she feels. Make sure she’s doing okay.” His voice shifts, filling with that honest sympathy which leaves it impossible to stay mad at him for long; Luke can be rough, but never actively cruel. This is the difference between him and the rest of their family --- even, sometimes, between he and his twin. “He’s probably fine. Holed up in his apartment, or… I dunno. Stevie can take care of himself.”

“He always has.” She sighs, and even finds the energy for a smile. He might not be able to see her, but Luke can still tell. (It _still counts,_ even if she doesn’t mean it.)

They say their goodbyes quietly, Nell with a word of encouragement, Luke with barely-veiled concern. She sets the phone down for a minute, just a minute, to see what they’re going to do for dinner… and after that, time gets away from her.

Not the way it used to, little slips in the fabric of reality that almost made the rest of the world seem unreal. Nell knows where she is now, always; her feet are firmly planted on the ground, and she couldn’t be happier where she’s standing. Now, losing time means Arthur coming home from work half an hour early; its hours spent working alongside him, finishing up the spare room, and whispering plans for what it will become. It means a cozy dinner — thrown together by Arthur, because Nell still can’t cook to save her life — and cuddling up on the couch to watch Netflix until they’re dozing off against each other’s shoulders.

Only when Arthur nudges her, pulling Nell up from the syrupy pool of sleep she’d been sinking into, does she remember.

“Oh. I never called Mom.”

Arthur pulls her into his arms, which has the added benefit of shaking Nell into wakefulness. “You can do it tomorrow. It’s late, babe. Gotta get some rest.”

“We  _ both _ do,” she insists, pulling him up with her. Arthur’s habit of doting on her has only gotten worse these past few months… which isn’t to say she doesn’t enjoy it, but he needs to take care of himself too. Her arms twine around his neck and she blinks up at him beseechingly; his answering smile is far too bright to exist past at this time of night, lighting up the room better than any lamp of dim television glow.

He leads her up to bed. Whispers fill the night air, the sound of shifting limbs and rustling covers, until eventually they fall asleep in each other’s arms. Nell drifts off with the scent of him on her skin, her long hair tangled in his fingers.

She wakes up frozen.

Always, there is that moment of blind panic. In the space between her waking mind connecting with her sleeping one, she is neither here nor there; the walls ripple, her body is not her own, and the air presses down with intent to smother her. It’s a struggle to remember where she is, who she is --- to remember that she's safe. They’ve got this down to a science now, though. _Breathe. In and out. Remember where you are. Clench your fist. Good girl._

Arthur’s words echo in her ears, even as he remains still beside her… and she’s almost got it, has almost broken the spell, when she sees the figure standing at the foot of the bed.

Nothing about him has changed from the memories of two decades ago — the memories of a little girl, terrified and frozen, facing down a nightmare. The face is shrouded with shadow, but gaunt and grey; dark blood beads at the corners of his mouth, dripping onto the carpet. His arms are stretched in front of him, trembling slightly, like he’s reaching out to her, and the _eyes…_

Black holes where eyes ought to be gape out at her, drawing her in, swallowing her up.

The din of silence in her ears swells and swells; the nightmare’s ragged breathing is enough to smother her. Something jerks tight in her chest, like her heart has decided to stop beating… and that’s the moment he screams.

Nell springs awake, a blood-curdling roar echoing in her ears. She does not realize, until the spectre blinks from existence, that she is screaming too.

Even as Arthur catches her in his arms, she can only sob, only howl. Terror has her in it's iron grip, and she cannot escape it; it's slicing her to pieces, killing her. Before this moment, she wasn't aware such fear was possible... and something sharp mixes in with it, like blades digging deep into her wrists, burning as they cut deeper.

“It’s Stevie,” she gasps out, clutching Arthur’s shirt like a lifeline. She is no longer a grown adult, but a terrified child again — a child staring at a demon, staring into a cup of liquid that glistens like stars, staring as the house vanishes behind her, leaving her parents alone with it. Nothing has changed, except she is no longer here, and no longer there, and something powerful is calling her back home.

Her hands tighten into fists around Arthur's shirt, and unseeing eyes raise to meet his.

“Stevie’s in the Red Room.”


	2. Chapter 2

In the silence which stretches between her mother’s words and the deafening beat of her own heart, Shirley feels herself die.

It’s something she’s thought about more than is reasonably healthy — dying. No one could blame her. Death and Shirley Crain have always been intimate bedfellows, twined together as naturally as thorns on a rose bush, or a borrowed ring on a perfectly-sized finger. They’re friends. They’re family. Shirley could even say she’s married to death.

She has, on a few occasions, where well-meaning patrons, eager to distract from their own grief, note the family pictures on her wall, and the lack of a ring on her finger.

She boasts about her children happily enough, but when the subject of Kevin comes up, Shirley only smiles. I’m married to my work, she says. Sometimes old widows offer her sympathetic looks, as though they assume the most literal conclusion. Other times, people do not understand at all, and this is for the best.

They do not need to know how familiar she is with death. Losing a parent at eleven years old, opening a funeral home at twenty-seven, more miscarriages than children on her branch of the family tree… Death is an old friend, and Shirley knows his face by now.

He is standing in the corner of her bedroom, wearing the solemn eyes and haggard face of her brother.

“Fuck,” is all she can say into the phone; and the simple act of speaking reminds her that she is still alive. She is alive, and Steve is not. Steve is dead, and suddenly Shirley stands at the head of the pack. The eldest sibling, now. The one who talks to corpses instead of ghosts.

“They’re not sure what happened.” Luke’s voice is halting, strained; he’s been crying, Shirley can tell. In the background, she can hear a low murmur, Nell’s distinctive undertone. Rather than surprise that the twins are together already (as if they knew, like they knew in advance what was coming) Shirley only feels numb. “They found him an hour ago, but he’s been there since… last night, seems like. They’re not really sure.” He pauses, as if chewing over his words, trying to find the right ones. “It was Mrs. Dudley who found him.”

When Shirley speaks, her voice is choked and rough. “Who?”

“Mrs. D— the housekeeper. He was, umm… he was at the top of the stairs. Top of the landing. There was blood… everywhere.”

“But the eyes, Luke, the eyes, you said —“

“It’s an old house. Maybe it was just animal. Had to have been animals, hell, how could he take out his own —“

It’s called self-enucleation, and it’s rare… but possible. It wouldn’t even kill you, if you could stand the pain, and usually people so far gone to do that to themselves can. Not Steve, though. Steve wasn’t… he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t out of his mind raving, pulling out pieces of himself like some —

But how would she know? When’s the last time she spoke to Steve?

Hell, when’s the last time Shirley spoke to  _ any  _ of her family?

Something has ahold of her ribcage, like a rubber band trapping her and squeezing tight. Maybe this is how she dies, actually — three in the morning, dead in bed of shock, after hearing her brother killed himself.

It would take them days to find the body. Longer than Steve. She wouldn’t have anybody looking for her.

“Does — does Mom know?” It’s the first question she can think to ask; the last thing Shirley wants is to be the one to break the news to her.

“Yeah, Nellie called her last night. She knew something was wrong. She, umm… she had a nightmare.”

“Mom and her goddamn nightmares.” Shirley rests her head in her hands, fingers twining through thick bedhead. The harder she tugs at the roots of her scalp, the more grounded she feels… and it’s a feeling she clings to, when the whole world suddenly seems unsteady on its axis.

“The body, we have to take care of the body… and we need to work out funeral arrangements. Here, obviously.” Before Luke can protest, she breezes on, almost aggressively. “You and Nell will have to fly down, and someone has to pick up Theo —“

_ Oh, goddamn it. _

“She doesn’t know,” Luke fills in, reading the suspense in her sudden silence. “Not yet.”

“Someone’s got to tell her.” It dawns on Shirley, with a queasy certainty, that it will have to be her. She is Theo’s emergency contact, the one who paid for her to get into this latest center… and now, she’s the oldest sibling. It will have to be her.

(Then again, even if Steve were here, even if this were a whole other tragedy, in a whole other lifetime, it’s probably still be her.  _ Reliable Shirley, _ now and forever.  _ How well did that work out, Mom? _ )

She heaves a heavy sigh, and sinks back into her bed, allowing her heart to sink with her. The numbness creeps and swells, until it has engulfed her entirely. She wants nothing more than to let herself drift — to drown in it — but, for the moment, that’s not an option.

Tonight is for mourning. Tomorrow is for work. Either way, Shirley will not get to rest.

* * *

Without anyone around to argue why she shouldn’t, Shirley is free to make the arrangements in peace. (This may, actually, be the reason she puts off the Theo problem until taking care of Steve; both tasks will be monumentally difficult, but she’d rather get the worst over with, without a sibling around to make it even harder.) Her brother’s body is routed to Shirley’s small funeral home; the funeral arrangements will all be taken care of here, handled by her. This is the way it should be.

Years ago, when it was just she and Kevin working alongside each other, the Harris funeral home had a reputation; hell, they had regular customers. The business split up along with their marriage, though. That was no one’s fault. Finances had been on the decline for years, especially with two kids to support. Unlike one stupid night at a business conference, shutting down the home couldn’t be blamed on anything but fate.

Now, Shirley does what she does alone… while Kevin’s back in his hometown, letting his mother take care of the kids every day as he goes off to work in a tech company. Jayden and Allie visit every other weekend; the schedule has been the same for the past two years, to the point that they’ve almost gotten used to it.

Sometimes, Shirley looks at them and wonders why the hell she didn’t fight harder.

A thousand regrets don’t push anybody forward, though… and god knows, their family has enough of those.

So she sinks into the familiar, what she has always known, what she has always taken comfort in. The routine never changes, no matter which body is on the table. Shirley Crain knows bodies as well as she knows death.

That still doesn’t prepare her for the moment the white van opens up to reveal her brother, loaded up on a gurney. Her heart pounds at the base of her throat, steadily creeping upwards. It tastes bitter, like all the rage she cannot swallow down, and all the regrets which won’t allow themselves to be. Fingernails dig into work-roughened palms. She stands stiff as a statue, in her black coat on the black tarmac, and stares at the black bag which contains her brother.

What  _ used  _ to be her brother. Bodies aren’t people anymore. They’re not alive; they can’t think, can’t feel.

She takes control of the gurney herself, pushing it through the doors of the funeral home, and down into the mortuary; the hearse’s owner helps until they reach the metal table, where Steve is shoved away like a load of unpleasant cargo. That easily, she wheels off… and Shirley is left alone with her dead.

For a moment, she can’t bear to open it. Whatever nightmares her brain conjures up, what she sees will undoubtedly be worse… so Shirley only stands, and stares. The thing in there is not her brother. Her brother was tall and smiling, with an irreverent sense of humor. Her brother used to pull her hair when they were little, but always looked like someone had done it to him when she started crying, and apologized twenty times afterwards. Her brother danced with her at her wedding, and Nell’s. Her brother gave her her first cigarette, and later convinced her to kick the habit. Her brother had the most annoying habit of speaking aloud anything he read, and she used to wonder how he could be a writer, if he couldn’t stay quiet for one minute, Steve…

Her brother was alive. His corpse is not. There’s a difference.

With this odd fortification, Shirley finds the strength she needs. No getting around it now, and no putting it off. Steve deserves better than that.

Slowly, she reaches down and unzips the bag. It takes another moment before she is able to meet the face which used to belong to Steve.

Unwillingly, her breath catches in her throat. 

Not much can shock a mortician after fifteen years on the job… but the gore-torn mess of her brother’s face is worse than anything Shirley could have anticipated. Steve’s skin has faded to the color of chalk, blood pooling in recesses towards the back of his head — he was lying on the ground for nearly a day before anyone found him. That much is enough to explain the dryness of his lips, the hollowness of his face (though it seems he wasn’t carrying much weight in the days before his death anyways) and the thick stubble which lines ashy cheeks.

But the eyes… the _eyes._

Desperately, Shirley diverts her attention lower, pulling the rubber covering back. Steve’s neck is slender and unmarred; sure enough, his chest reveals the telltale definition of ribs. The hollow ashiness of his entire body stops at his wrists, where deep gashes mar the skin vertically. They are deep enough to pierce through layers of flesh, almost down to the bone — jagged wounds, made with a piece of glass. (Did he not go there with a purpose in mind? Was killing himself a spur-of-the-moment thing?)

Unwillingly, her eyes flicker back to his face. She cannot help the hard swallow which wracks her entire chest, gulping back tears and something else. So much for the animal theory. The hollow pits of gore and blood where his eyes ought to be would not be half as jarring had they been inflicted post-mortem. Blood was flowing fresh, even as Steve made the cuts which ended his life. Sure enough, brutal scratch marks like his cheeks and eye sockets… but worst of all is the blood and flesh under his fingernails.

_ Wasn’t that far gone, _ Shirley recalls, mocking her own naïveté. Then,  _ Fuck _ .

_ Fucking hell, Steve. _

_ You should have known better. _

_ Of all people, you should have known _ .

* * *

Lying in his casket, hands folded across his chest, Hugh Crain had never looked more peaceful.

Shirley still remembers, after all this time — remembers the fear racing through her mind in the hours leading up to the funeral, imagination running wild with scenes straight from a nightmare. Steve would only tell the story once, but that was all Shirley needed to imagine. Her father’s head would be smashed to bits; his neck would be broken; there’d be nothing left of him but broken bones and a skull like a shattered watermelon. As she stood at the end of the aisle, trembling, she was certain of what lay within, and certain she did not want to see it.

Aunt Janet had almost given up urging her forward when the funeral director stepped in.

That day, Shirley learned the secret of death — the magic in it, the mercy. Death is only final as far as a heartbeat and brain go. (Spirit, too, if you believe in all that.) Closure, healing, resolution — this is the side of death no one ever talks about, and it’s up to the mortician to make that magic happen.

Her father taught her one last important lesson, lying in his final bed: Death might be inevitable, but it’s not impossible to control.

Shirley works carefully and quietly, taking care of everything. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s her job; she does everything right.

Setting the features is always the most crucial part of the process, but Shirley is nothing if not meticulous when it comes to details. First, she wires the jaw shut; Steve’s lips, chapped and bloodied as they are, taken the glue easily, and settle into an expression that is almost peaceful. Glass eyeballs must be fit in (Shirley holds her breath, and pretends she’s fixing a broken doll), but after that, they close neatly --- so neatly that the damage can barely be seen anymore.

Then, the fluids. This is the easy part; no faces to look at, no memories to dig up. Every body fills with formaldehyde solution the same way. They all swell, they all flush… and, with a little touch of chemical magic, Shirley brings the dead back to life.

The rest is taken care of with makeup. Lots of makeup.

Foundation, concealer, bronzer, lip rogue… she even shaves him. Just so he can look like the brother she remembers, not the shell of himself he somehow became.

And it’s done. The world does not slip back into alignment, but a weight has been lifted from her unsteady shoulders… and she can almost breathe, almost close him up. For a moment, Shirley takes a step back, and looks at him.

She remembers.

* * *

“You want to turn our family --- our lives --- into a fucking expose?”

Steve stood tall against the full force of her assault, but Shirley would not relent. A storm churned inside of her, too furious to confine itself; it spilled out, thunder from her lips, lightning flashing from her tongue. In the face of it all, her brother didn’t even flinch.

“It’s a _book,_ Shirl. About what we went through. People have been saying the house is haunted for years, and with the publicity our story got, don’t you think people want to hear the facts?”

“The facts?” She spat the words back in his face as though they were venomous. “We don’t know the facts, Steve!”

“We know that Mom had a breakdown. That Dad didn’t make it out of the house. That people are so ready to blame it on ghosts ---”

“So you’re going to cater to them. Turn us into some sideshow?”

“That’s not what I ---” Steve cut himself off, frustration drawing his words tight as a bowstring. One hand rubbed across his jaw, the other gripping the manuscript tightly in his hands. His laptop was still open on the table, revealing the glowing document ---  _ THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE _ , by Steven Crain.  _ The true account of the Crain family’s experiences in the notoriously haunted Hill House. _

“I haven’t submitted it anywhere yet,” he said after a beat of tense silence. “I wanted your approval ---”

“Well, you don’t have it!”

“Theo’s fine with it. Nell and Luke ---”

“Of course the twins are fine with it, they’ve been convinced the house is haunted all their lives! What about Dad? Are you trying to say he was killed by ghosts?”

“Of course he wasn’t killed by ghosts! He was killed by ---”

Steve cut himself off, eyes wide as his own words sunk in. Shirley let them hang for a moment, unwilling to alleviate the tension. It was what he deserved. Steve, putting their lives on display, taking their childhood nightmares and making them public. Wasn’t the media circus enough? Wasn’t having to talk to the police, having no one to protect them, losing their parents ---

God damn it all, couldn’t it just be _enough?_

“What about Mom?” she said, quiet and cold. “Have you talked to Mom about it?”

Something flickered in Steve’s eyes, a shadow too clear to be anything but guilt. Shirley huffed in disgust, but not disbelief. Taking a step back, she surveyed her brother, and the precise effect her words had on him. “Typical, Steve. Shitty, but typical.”

“I was going to talk to her,” he protested weakly.

“When?"

“When she-- when ---” He waved his hand in agitation, leaving Shirley to fill in the blanks. _When she’s stable? When she’s gotten over Dad? When she’ll forgive you for exploiting his death?_ In other words, _ never. _

“Don’t publish the book.” Her words left absolutely no room for argument. “If you won’t do it for us, because you don’t give enough of a shit about us… do it for Mom. If you love her, destroy it.”

From the look on Steve's face, she may as well have torn the heart out of his chest.

* * *

She remembers too well, and something within her recoils from the memory like it’s out to brand her — a scar of shame she will never escape from. The next week, she’d heard through the grapevine that Steve had scrapped his latest project, destroying every last copy… and _THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE_ never reared its ugly head again.

Maybe if she hadn't… hadn’t done that, hadn’t kept him from the  _ one thing  _ that might have brought him satisfaction,  _ maybe _ things might have been different —

There are a thousand things she wishes she could say to Steve. A thousand apologies she wishes she could make. Instead, she simply blinks back a tear, and moves to close him up.

His painted lips twitch.

From his mouth, a great black cockroach emerges into the open air.

Shirley nearly falls over herself in horror, leaping back from the table as if he’s sat up and swung at her. Pain shoots through her back and shoulders as she impacts the cabinet; wide eyed, she remains still, searching for any sign of the bug. After a beat, she takes a hesitant step closer… then another, and another.

_ The kittens, _ she thinks, somewhat deliriously.

Nellie cradled each kitten as she lifted them from the box, eagerly brandishing them for her sister’s proud inspection.  _ Five kitties, like the five of them… _ and the first one, the largest one, she held to her chest as she proudly declared it had to be her big brother.  _ This one’s named Stevie. _

The largest kitten died first… and all the rest followed.

Tears burn at her eyes, and a whimper passes her lips, but Shirley does not cry. She can’t. (When was the last time she cried? Long enough that she cannot remember the feeling, the burn of tears on her cheeks, the taste of salt on her lips. She wants to cry, she  _ wants _ to… but the tears won’t come, and she doesn’t know how to force them.)

“I’m sorry,” she says aloud, and turns to leave.

The light has switched off, and the doors are swinging shut… when something in the shadows catches her attention. Shirley’s heart plummets to her toes. Every instinct in her body, every shred of common sense urges her not to look. To run away and not look back. To leave her brother there, for the darkness that took him in the first place.

He’s sitting up on the table.

A gasp suspends in her throat, choking her as she tries to force it out; but no sound passes her lips. Bony fingers brace against the doorway, the only thing that keeps her from falling over. All thee work she did has vanished. Steve’s face is a decaying husk, his mouth a jagged snarl of blood and broken teeth. Hollow eye sockets gape at her from a chalk-white face, blood slowly dripping down his cheeks to land on the tile.

Shirley chokes, whimpers, and in utter desperation manages to fumble the light back on.

Steve is on the table. The bag is closed over his head. He’s fine.

He’s dead.

He’s  _ fine _ .

Shirley keeps her eyes shut at the door slams behind her, and her brother is left in the dark.

* * *

Somehow, even after all that, the worst task is yet to come.

She drives down to rehab a few hours later, as soon as she’s showered and washed the smell of blood out of her skin. Her heart is pounding the entire time. No guaranteeing what she’ll find here; last anyone heard of Theo, she was almost three months sober, which is a record for her. A shock like this… sure, she and Steve were never particularly close, but he’s her goddamn brother.

Shirley doesn’t want to be the one to tell her. But if she doesn’t, who will?

This facility is one of the nicer ones. The staff, at least, is conciliatory; she explains the situation first to the woman at the counter, and they agree to discharge Theo for a short time immediately. Shirley was expecting some kind of argument, at least… but as soon as her sister steps through the doors, she knows the real fight has yet to come.

Theo looks good, all things considered. Healthy. Her face is thin, scrubbed clean of all makeup; her dark mess of hair is pulled back in a ponytail, out of her face. As always, her gloves are secure on her hands, and she keeps her distance from any physical contact. The brightness of her eyes, however, has nothing to do with alcohol, and her gait is steady. It’s been so long since Shirley saw her sister sober that she’s almost forgotten what it looks like.

This isn’t a casual visit, though, and they both know it. As soon as Theo’s eyes land on her, her face falls. She takes one look at Shirley’s tight expression and shrinks into herself, like a flower cringing away from blistering sun.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Shirley says softly.   
  
“Fuck,” Theo mutters; and then, with the casual irreverence which hasn’t changed a bit from their earliest days, “I need a goddamn drink.”


	3. Chapter 3

Shirley never comes to visit without one hell of a good reason, so the moment Theo hears her sister’s name, she knows something’s gone to shit.

And of course, her first thought isn’t Nell, because there’s never anything wrong with Nell (not since she got a handle on the depression, at least, and Arthur got out of the hospital). It’s not Luke, cause Luke’s damn thriving, it’s not Steve, because he’s always taken care of himself.

The first thing that crosses her mind is _Mom_ , and something inside of her shrivels into a vulnerable little ball, like a hermit crab shivering outside of its shell. In a flash, she imagines a thousand awful things at once: an accident, an overdose, something as stupid as slipping down the stairs and breaking a hip. 

She thinks she’s prepared for anything… until the moment she steps out into the lobby, and catches sight of her sister’s face.

The world slows, screeches, then grinds to a stop. Her heart is a choking weight in her throat; the thin, rehab-standard clothing suddenly feels like coarse sandpaper against her skin. Theo’s familiar with sensory overload, but this is something different — being shocked into it without even a touch. No invite, no warning, no reason for it all.

And she knows. _She knows._

“Fuck,” she says aloud. “I need a drink.”

Two minutes out of rehab, and already off the wagon… but none of that matters, because her oldest brother is dead.

Rehab can go to hell.

* * *

“So, not like I was expecting a five star hotel… but you realize your couch is made out of cement, right?” 

“It’s fine once you get used to it.” Shirley’s voice is tight, head bent low over the vegetables she’s chopping. A stray strand of curl obscures her face from view, but after all this time, Theo can still read her sister’s voice. Even if she couldn’t, she can read her surroundings; from the run-down furniture filling Shirley’s three-room flat, and the conspicuous emptiness of the living room which makes up the greater part of the house, the puzzle is easy to piece together. It doesn’t take an empath to figure out Shirley doesn’t have the money to spare for a luxurious couch, or a spare bed.

The place she had with Kevin was nicer than this; then again, so was Shirley’s life, back then. Of all of them, she seemed like the obvious choice to live out the storybook happy ending… even if the Harris funeral home hosted a few more corpses than your average fairytale. _Perfect Shirley,_ with her perfect life… it was enough to almost make Theo hate her, sometimes.

Little did she realize, Shirley’s as much a fuck-up as the rest of them.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked once, on the rare occasion she spent quality time with her sister, and the even rarer occasion that they drank together.

Shirley’d lowered her head, shutting down the way she’s always been so good at, and shrugged. Whatever answer was on the tip of her lips, she wouldn’t say it out loud. Not to Theo, anyway. While it wouldn’t have been hard for Theo to set a casual hand on her arm and look deeper, she didn’t bother, not that night or anytime since… not because she respects her sister’s privacy too much, but because she doesn’t want to get involved.

Shirley got a divorce. Theo got drunk. Steve got dead.

_So much for setting an example, huh, Dad?_

Dad was all about that; it was one of the things he emphasized, whenever the older kids started bitching about not getting their way. He’d crouch down in front of them, strong hands resting on their shoulders, and stare straight at them with those blue eyes they all knew so well, took such refuge in. _“You’ve got to show Luke and Nellie how to behave. They’re still so little now --- they don’t have it all figured out yet. But you guys are the big siblings. It’s up to you to_ show them _how to be big and strong.”_

When she was a kid, she took that responsibility so goddamn _seriously_.

 _So much for that,_ she can’t help thinking now, looking around at Shirley’s run-down house and the half-emptied glass of gin in her hand. Somewhere below their feet, Steve’s laying on a metal table, his insides emptied out, his life over… and the twins are out there in the big wide world, living their lives. Being happy. 

How’d it all go so wrong?

Her gaze drifts, almost unwillingly, to the old family portraits on the wall. Of course Shirley holds on to these, even after her old family’s fallen apart. Idealization of the past is Psych 101 --- and she might not have been able to afford a doctorate, but Theo did get her damn bachelor’s degree. Sure, it seems like centuries ago now (back when she wanted to focus on _living_ her life, instead of drinking it away) but that happy little family isn’t so far in the past that they’ve all forgotten it.

Sighing, she leans against the doorway, and watches her sister prepare the rest of dinner. “You sure I can’t help?”

Shirley hums a distinct negative. Theo sighs, and takes another sip. The liquor burns as it travels down her throat, but it’s still better company than an evening with Shirley.

“What about Mom? Does she ---”

“Yeah. Everyone knows. Apparently, Mom knew before anyone else.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Mom _knows_ things now. At least, she says she does. She’s made a business out of it, with a curtained room at the back of her house, filled with crystals and incense and all kinds of other shit designed to seduce oblivious customers into a phony sense of mysticism. Reading futures would be enough on its own, but the ghost thing…

Theo believes in a lot, god knows, but she draws the line at ghosts. 

When was the last time she saw her mother? The last time she talked to her? Jesus, she can’t even remember. Their mom lives just a town over. Theo’s been in rehabs within walking distance of her house, and still… it’s been two years, at least.

Got to give Mom credit for that, at least. You ask her to leave you alone, she listens.

It startles Theo now, how much she misses her. Mom’s presence fills a room, an entire house, drawing light in where there wasn’t any to begin with. She makes things feel like home. It’s easier to push her away, because… because otherwise, it’s just like leaving a door open, never knowing what might step inside. _Home_ hasn’t been real for them, not since that night, and that house, and the time when that little family existed and was happy. _Home_ has just been a memory for years now… but when Mom’s around, it’s too easy to forget.

Too easy to remember.

Theo’s glass hits the counter with a clink. Shirley looks up, surprised, knife nearly fumbling over a bell pepper. Theo leans forward on her forearms, running a hand through her hair. The alcohol hasn’t even started to have an effect yet, so she’s too sober for her own good, and it leaves her feeling way too much.

“So, she’s just alone? In that house, all alone, talking to Dad’s ghost --- and probably Steve’s now, too? Jesus.”

“What d’you want to do, Theo?” Shirley sets her knife down, scowl fitting like a glove on her face. “Invite her over for dinner?”

“Why not?”

They both know exactly why not. Why haven’t they invited her over _any time_ in the past few years?

Theo heaves a sigh, entire body moving with it. “She shouldn’t be alone. Not now.”

“Arthur and the twins are flying down tomorrow. They should be here by tomorrow night, and the funeral ---”

“It’s too long.” Too long for Steve to lay down there, alone and forgotten. Too long for Mom to be left to her cards and crystals, alone with her ghosts.

Shirley fixes her with a hard stare, not budging a inch, even when Theo scowls at her. That must be a Mom thing — not that Shirley plays happy family much anymore — because Theo can’t hold her ground like that for more than a minute without diving for a drink.

Still, she’s smart enough to see the writing on the wall. This argument’s lost already… no point dragging it out. 

With a sigh, Theo turns on her heel, and stalks out of the room.

* * *

It’s probably fucked up that her brother’s dead body is more tolerable company than her very alive sister.

Then again, that’s the sort of thing Steve would have laughed at. His sense of humor was ironic bordering on bitter sometimes, all jagged at the edges… and it could be just as dark as Theo’s own. They bonded over that, whispered jabs and rolling eyes, tied together by some inner sense of… _difference_ the others just lacked. Who knew what it was? Maybe they just stood on equal ground. Maybe they both didn’t give half a shit about other people… at least, not enough to want to let anybody in. Maybe they both couldn’t, and that was the problem.

Hell, maybe that’s why Steve’s dead right now.

“Are you happy?”

Theo’s voice echoes in the dull silence of the morgue. For just a second, she pauses, as though waiting for an answer; then she huffs, taking a long swig of her drink.

Straight tequila, from the bottle. This is more like it.

Steve would have liked that too.

It’s not the drink which sends her a bit off-balance, forcing her to steady herself against the metal table, though. The air is heavy in here; it’s charged with something that seeps into Theo’s skin, clinging to her like a coat of glue. If she breathes too deeply, it will fill her lungs and smother her — she just knows, without having to test the theory out. Instead, she drinks, and studies what little of Steve’s body she can see under the sheet, and talks to shadows hoping one of them might answer.

God, talk about following in Mom’s footsteps.

If Theo wanted to do that, she never would have pulled away in the first place… but in those months after the hospital, when Mom was back but not, not the Mom they remembered, she couldn’t bring herself to let her in. Mom probably could have helped — helped with the feelings, at least. She could have taught Theo how to shut it off, how not to feel anything.

Instead, she taught Theo exactly what could happen if you open yourself up to _too much…_ a lesson Theo learned, and never forgot.

Mom tried to reach out over the years, of course, but Theo built up an ice wall between them, and there was no thawing it. She stuck with her gloves… and, as it got too much, more and more, she held her drinks close. Drinking turns it all off for awhile. It numbs the feelings, lets the world go quiet, without ever leaving Theo out in the cold completely. When she’s completely shitfaced… well, that’s the only time Theo ever feels in control of what she feels.

Does that make her a fuckup? Six rehabs in a decade would say, _yeah, no shit._

“At least I’m not the worst of us,” she mutters, gaze flickering back towards Steve. It’s hard to stare for too long --- her stomach goes tight and nauseous, while her throat locks up like a vice --- but the longer she looks, the number she gets. After a while, she can even notice things, which only a close inspection would turn up. Beneath the foundation applied liberals to his face, she can still see the damage Shirley couldn’t completely hide. Torn skin around the eyes, hollow cheeks that spoke to his state long before he stepped foot into the house… he couldn’t have been eating much. Or sleeping, either, if Steve’s history of insomnia is anything to go by. With a mental state like that, he was on a downward slope for a long time.

How did no one see it? Not Leigh, not Mom, not Nellie… anyone?

Because, Steve closed himself off from them all. Typical. Goddamn typical, and Theo doesn’t even have room to talk.

Her empty bottle slams down on the metal table, leaving an eerie echo throughout the room. She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and steps towards her brother.

One hand pries the long black glove free from the other, finger by finger --- slow and deliberate, dragging the awful task out. She crumples it tight in before following with the other one, focusing on her own hands to avoid looking at Steve any longer. Her nails are bitten to stubs; her knuckles are stark white. She is, to her own surprise, trembling.

But like hell if she came all the way down here for nothing.

With a shudder of breath, Theo reaches out, and lays her palm over Steve’s head.

For a long moment, she waits. Feeling, waiting, hoping for something --- for once in her goddamn life, praying to feel. Steve’s skin is cool and dry beneath her palm, like leather. He does not move. She does not pull away. Theo waits.

Then the abyss open under her without warning, and she falls.

No, literally. She falls. Her back hits the metal table hard, sending bursts of agony rippling up her spine, but she does not realize she’s on the floor until her knees are drawing up to her chest, and she’s screaming --- a long, drawn out wail, like the soul emptying out of her. Emptying out of Steve. Empty. Jesus, god, jesus, empty.

Like a wounded animal, she draws into herself, pressing her hands to her own heart… and even then, she doesn’t feel anything.

* * *

In the aftermath of it all, she wants to be touched. She wants to hold something close, to be held, to be near someone… but there is no one to call, no one to come. She is a small castaway, adrift in an endless ocean, and there is nothing to hold on to…

So, Theo does what she’s good at. She drinks.

When she wakes up, empty gin bottle in hand, stretched out on Shirley’s couch, it takes a long moment to understand where she is through the darkness. Where she is, why she’s here, what happened… and once it settles in, she closes her eyes, and prays for unconsciousness to take her back.

Instead, a chill caresses the curve of her neck.

Theo shifts, eyes glued shut. _Covers…_ didn’t she have covers? A blanket, at least, Shirley gaze her that… yet even as she thinks it, the last of the blanket slides horizontally out of reach, off her ankles and onto the floor.

Dread wraps its icy fingers around her throat, and _squeezes_. She can’t move. She can’t breathe. Something drips onto her forehead, like a leak in the roof; it is hot and cold all at once, searing her skin as much as freezing it. A shudder rips through her frame. Her hands dig into the couch cushions, desperately searching for something, anything to hold onto...

Against her will, her eyes pry themselves open, and widen.

Steve hangs suspended against the ceiling, a shower of blood falling from his empty eye sockets. His hands scrabble at the plaster, leaving crimson fingermarks; he twitches and writhes like an animal in its death throes, staring at Theo all the while with those black, empty sockets.

The shadows around them close in, and Theo cannot scream.

Steve does it for her --- though when he opens his mouth, Theo’s own voice echoes around them.

_Touch me. Touch me. Touch me._

With one bloodied hand, Steve reaches down to her.

And finally, Theo screams.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes seventeen minutes to make to Nell’s house after she calls, a little after midnight, in total panic.

Seventeen, because traffic in LA is a nightmare at the best of times, and Luke has to stop and put on pants. It wasn’t like he was busy — he’s never _busy_ , persay, just working, and he’s working most of the time. There’s nobody to say goodbye to in his crowded apartment-turned-studio, so he just rushes out the door and throws himself into the car. He means to get there sooner, but his car is an old piece of junk, and takes a minute to warm itself up.

By the time he’s at Nell’s front door, pulse racing, breath coming in heavy inhales, he’s prepared for anything. Nell wouldn’t clarify over the phone — or she was too upset to, it was hard to tell around all the crying — so there are a thousand things it could be, and Luke’s ready for all of them. Is it Mom? Is it Arthur? Is it — Christ — the baby?

One possibility is immediately ruled out when the door opens to reveal Arthur, standing in his pajamas and looking spooked. Luke claps him on the back in greeting as he steps into the house.

“She says it wasn’t a nightmare. That Steve —“ Arthur cuts himself off, stricken. “She says something happened to Steve.”

Luke finds her in bed, cocooned in the covers, cradling her phone like a lifeline. If his heart is racing too fast, he’d be forgiven for thinking Nellie’s isn’t beating at all. She’s too still, too small, like an animal torn apart and left for dead. The phone is hugged against her chest; she cradles it like a lifeline.

“He’s gone, Luke,” is all she says as she melts into his arms. “Stevie’s gone.” And, after a brief but dreadful pause. “I saw him.”

There’s no way to confirm, no way to really understand what’s happened… but Nell has always had _feelings_ about things like this, and she’s never been wrong before. This isn’t the first time she’s seen things no one else has been able to explain.

The No-Eyed Man was always Nellie’s childhood monster — even after the house, after the horror show was done. Luke has his own nightmares, in the house and out (nightmares of a little girl with wide eyes, foam spewing past her lips; nightmares of a burned corpse rushing at him from the dark), but Nellie’s was always there, always over her shoulder. They became a part of her, in ways even Luke couldn’t understand… which, considering he understood everything else about his sister, scared the hell out of him.

But in the past few years, things have been okay. God damn it, things were great. They’re supposed to be _better,_ damn it, not worse… so why are the nightmares back now?

“Do — I mean, Jesus, do you know what happened?” he asks, rocking her gently back and forth. Her stomach is swollen between them, just a bit — she’s not past the four-month phase, so it’s not like she’s huge — but he still holds her delicately anyways. Nellie does the opposite. She grips him like she is a kite caught in a storm, and he is the iron line anchoring her to earth.

“I don’t know,” she whimpers. “I don’t… I… I have to call.”

He helps her fumble for her phone, and for a moment, it seems certain she’s going to try Steve. When a familiar voice echoes from the other line instead, he can’t help a flicker of surprise.

There is a three hour time difference between Los Angeles and Concord, but Mom picks up on the first ring. Her voice is husky, with dread instead of sleep. This night has been a restless one for her, too… and the realization hits Luke like a bolt of dread, straight to the chest.

“He’s gone,” is all Nell can say, oblivious to Luke’s hand on her back. “Mom, Steve’s gone, he’s gone —“

“I know.” Mom cuts through the silence like a knife driving deep enough to hit bone. She is not crying. Something awful lingers in her voice, the echo of tears she will not allow herself to shed — not yet, maybe not ever — but she is steady.

Nell digests her mother’s words, taking long enough to accept them as certainty, before releasing a thin keen into the phone. Luke holds her tighter, his heart crushing itself to bits in his chest. _Stevie,_ he thinks, and fights the urge to be sick.

“I know, baby, I know…” And even if they cannot see her, Mom’s voice is as expressive as her face, and her voice is bleeding. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 _Sorry_ can’t bring back the dead… but Luke holds Nellie close through the night, thinking on all the other _sorries_ he never got to say, and wishes, just this once, that it could.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, placing both palms flat down on the desk, “but we can’t keep doing this. It’s the last time.”

“Jesus, Steve, she's our sister.”

“She’s been in and out of rehab for the past few years.” Shaking his head caused a few strands of dark, uncombed hair to fall in his face. Instead of pushing it back, Steve just hunched forward, as if trying to use it as a shield between himself and Luke’s rage. “We’ve been going on a three-strike-system, and she’s on, what? Strike five?”

Six, Luke couldn’t help but think. This was Theo’s sixth rehab in that many years. This time, it wasn’t court mandated. She was going in there because she wanted to — she really wanted to get better, why couldn’t Steve see that —

“She has to try, and she’s just not. So we can’t keep paying for her anymore.”

Luke’s hands clenched into vice-tight fists, but he did not lash out. Rage was Shirley’s thing; Luke’s anger was a slowly-simmering pot, rising over time, but never had it been pushed far enough to boil over. Now, he felt dangerously close. It would be better if Steve would meet his eyes, if he would look a bit remorseful… or look anywhere but at the goddamn table. Was it that easy for him to talk about their sister’s life?

“You can’t keep paying for her. You.” An undercurrent of accusation stirred in Luke’s tone, but he refused to spit the words. “And Shirley. And Nellie. But I’ve got the money, Steve. I can —“

“Dammit, that’s what I’m trying to say.” Finally, Steve looked up at him, but his fever-bright gaze was just a punch to Luke’s gut. “You can’t afford it either, Luke. It’s not your job. Do you know how fast money comes and goes as an artist?”

“No, but I guess you must.”

Steve froze, blinking at him. Too far, Luke’s guilty conscious whispered, too brutal… but there was no taking the truth back now. Just maybe, failed writers and failed recovering addicts had something in common.

He was expecting some kind of fight… but Steve, in the unique way he always had, disappointed him. He didn’t look angry; he just looked exhausted, like Luke’s jab drove a pin deep into his balloon, and all the air was steadily rushing out. After a long moment, Steve took a deep breath and spoke again. “No more rehabs. Stop paying for them. If Theo’s going to get better, she has to want to.” When Luke opened his mouth to protest, Steve cut him off. “She doesn’t, Luke! She doesn’t.”

“You don’t understand what she’s feeling.”

“And you do?” Steve arched his brows. “Right, because you have this long history of substance abuse we’ve all somehow failed to pick up on. Two addicts in the family, great.”

Luke closed his eyes, and sucked in a breath that burned. For a moment, it was impossible to say a word. Then the words rushed out all at once, and there was no stopping them, no point trying.

“Is this your fucked up way of caring? Of protecting us? _Abandoning_ Theo when she needs you, screaming at Nellie, giving up on Mom —“

“Hey!”

“And you think this is your job? You’re really doing what you’re supposed to do? Holy shit, Steve, are you that much of a jackass?”

Steve flung his arms out, laughing aloud. It was none of his old fire — just bitterness dredged from the ashes, trying to pretend — but it enflamed Luke all the same. Never did he regret the few inches height difference between them more; what he wouldn’t give to tower over Steve, just for this second. Steve glared back at him, exasperation in his eyes and exhaustion surrounding them… and in the moment, it was clear to both who the bigger man was.

“Strike six,” Luke growled. “And as many more as she needs. She’s our sister.”

Steve didn’t say a word as Luke spun around and stalked out of the room; but in the doorway, Luke pauses just long enough to look back. What he saw — the statue standing where his big brother ought to be — made him scoff out loud.

“We’re a family, Steve. Maybe one day you’ll remember that.”

* * *

No. _Sorries_ can’t fix anything, and now they’ll never get the chance.

Luke holds his sister for the rest of the night, and murmurs the word into silence.

* * *

It’s not like he’s got an actual _thing_ against flying. He just —- well, fuck — he just doesn’t like it.

“Do you want something?” Nellie asks for the third time, offering him a Xanax out of a mint tin. Luke shakes his head, hands tightening on the arms of the seat. On Nellie’s other side, sitting by the aisle, Arthur winces in sympathy.

“Take-off’s always the worst, man. Just ride it out.”

“Remember to breathe,” Nellie adds.

“In and out. Slow. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

“You’ve got this,” Nellie adds, and they both offer him these wide, beatific goddamn smiles, like something straight from a motivational poster. Luke has no idea what the hell’s happened, except that he’s not gripping the seat like a lifeline anymore, and his sister apparently has another twin.

“Wow,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m never getting married.”

“Don’t let Mom hear you say that,” Nell laughs softly, elbowing him. It’s good to hear her laugh again. For a minute, this almost seems like a casual vacation, headed someplace exciting… instead of flying cross-country for their brother’s funeral.

Jesus, what he wouldn’t give to be in Cancun right now. And Luke _hated_ Cancun the first time.

Shirley already called to let them know everything’s prepared. Leigh’s been given the news. Theo’s out of rehab. Mom’s driving down. Everything’s exactly as it should be, except Steve’s fucking dead.

The flight won’t go any faster for mourning, so Luke tries to sleep. Tries, being the key word. Nellie has to get up to pee at least four times (she’s always had the bladder of a squirrel, so why does she blame it on the pregnancy?) and Arthur’s audiobook is so loud Luke can hear it from seats away. Eventually, he just leans his head against the window and squeezes his eyes shut, determined to will this damn tin box to earth if it kills him. 

(Ideally, it won’t. A plane crash is what he’s trying to _avoid_.)

He wakes up to the sound of whispers in his ear, something soft — like Mom’s hair, or the brush of her lips — caressing the base of his neck.

When Luke’s eyes flutter open, the plane is dark.

No lights glow throughout the cabin; outside every open window is a sea of churning, pitch-black nothingness. Shadows writhe along the walls, not bothering to swallow up whatever they touch. The world bends to them, like a finger dipped in still water, sending ripples outwards with each minute movement. The shadows dance, and the world groans.

The passengers are all still sitting in their seats — bolt upright, shock-still, like they’ve all been electrocuted and left stuck that way. Luke strains to see up the plane, peering above the seats in front of him. At the top of the aisle, the shadowy figure of the flight attendant stands prone. Her arms are held out at her sides, bent at unnatural angles; her neck is craned all the way to the right, hair hanging in her face. She is poised like a spider, legs bowed and poised… as if, with a single twitch, she could scrabble up the aisle, gnashing and jerking that awful, twisted body.

The shadows on the wall aren’t shadows at all. They’re vines — vines surrounding a decrepit old house, growing over a corpse. The plane is the corpse, and they’re inside. They’re all right in the stomach.

In sudden desperation, Luke jerks towards Nell. Half of him is convinced he’ll find her stiff and prone, like all the others… but she is shaking in her seat, leaning forward, with a look of wide-eyes horror that defies even a whimper. At her side, Arthur is propped up like a doll, head twisted, a rictus grin across his lips; his eyes are wide open, trained on her.

Nell reaches a trembling hand towards him, lips moving in an inaudible plea. Luke grabs her, and holds on tight.

The flight still has hours to go. They haven’t come home yet.

* * *

By the time they pull up outside of Shirley’s house, Nell has finally stopped shaking. This is more of a relief than a miracle; for a while, Luke wasn’t sure she’d ever stop.

“I still really hate planes,” he remarks as Arthur pushes the taxi door open, and Nell laughs into her folded hands.

Arthur’s fine, and that’s the main thing. They’re all fine. Ghosts — because that’s what they are, and that’s what they always have been — can’t hurt you if you don’t open yourself up to them, don’t let them. Count to seven, he used to say, and recites the mantra over to himself for the hundredth time today.

_One, two, three…_

The front door opens. Shirley steps out, with Theo on her heels. They’re both scowling.

_Four, five, six…_

“Luke,” Nell says, reaching a hand towards him. “Aren’t you getting out?”

_Seven._

“Was thinking of hitching a ride back to LA, just blowing the whole thing,” he quips, stepping out the door on his own side. “Can’t afford the air fare, though. Not worth it.”

“They’ve had a rough flight,” Arthur offers to Shirley, who shrugs.

“It’s been a rough week.”

For a moment, none of them reply; after all, what’s there to say? A piece is missing, an integral section of them, and Steve’s absence is plain as an open wound… and just as painful. Luke grits his teeth against it, pushes through the awkwardness, and hauls two suitcases out of the car at once.

“Jesus. You’ve been working out,” says Theo, juggling the spare suitcase. Luke huffs out a laugh, grinning at her.

“So’ve you. They got a gym in rehab?”

“Horseback riding. The goddamn works.” She slams the trunk shut and gleams at him, with that irreverent _Theo_ charm he’s missed so much. There’s no point commenting on the alcohol on her breath, or the fact that she looks thinner than when he saw her last; much thinner, like she hasn’t been eating at all.

“We missed you,” is all he says, and Theo huffs softly.

“Sure would be great if we were here for a better reason.”

They haul the suitcases inside and set them down in Shirley’s sparse living room. For a moment, Luke can hardly catch up with his surroundings; the dim little flat is so un-Shirley that he can barely picture his sister living here. Then he takes a good look at the sister in question — worn and grey, with her hair pulled back severely and eyes flat — and it doesn’t seem so unthinkable, just depressing.

Nell and Arthur hover, like they’re not sure where to go. Shirley defuses the tension by leading them back, towards a door in the back of her living room, and down a winding hallway to the front of the building, the business section.

“There,” she says, gesturing to the parlor. “He’s — he's in there.”

It’s not a surprise that Nell makes herself look. (That’s what she's always been good at — looking, and seeing what no one else wanted to.) The bigger surprise is that Luke can’t. He makes it about halfway up the aisle… then he catches sight of Stevie in the coffin, and sees his younger brother’s grinning face pop through the hatch of his treehouse, and suddenly his legs are giving out. Arthur has to toe him to a seat. After that, Luke can’t meet anybody’s eye, and doesn’t bother trying.

Silence stretches on. It probably would forever, if Theo doesn’t bother to break it. “Is Mom coming?”

Shirley shrugs, running a hand over her tight updo. “Said she was.”

“Should someone call her?” Nell asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

“You know Mom. Maybe she just forgot.”

“That’s not fair.”

“She might show up five hours late with tea and a ouija board. Who knows?”

“ _Theo_ —“

The doorbell rings. They all cut themselves, and each other, off. Four heads swivel in tandem to the front room, where a storm rages against the windowpanes, and a silhouette stands in front of the door.

Arthur is the answer, and vanishes for a moment. The sound of a warm greeting echoes through the parlor, followed by Arthur’s laughter, and the soft strains of an almost-musical voice. The shadows outside dance. Thunder crashes overhead. The lights flicker before finding themselves again, but in the flash of darkness, shadows writhe and twine around the walls, around them all.

Then the lights come back on again. The monsters are gone. Olivia Crain steps through the door, and looks upon her children.


End file.
